Almost An Angel

by Judith Arnold

Amy, on the other hand, sounded more and more confident. She turned to Eliza. “Santa brings presents to good children—at least the children who celebrate Christmas. Jewish children and Muslims and other children have different holidays and get presents in other ways. But kids who celebrate Christmas get presents from Santa. If they’re good, of course.”

  “The thing is, Christmas isn’t about getting stuff,” Conor reminded his daughter, his tone gaining strength. “It’s about giving. And sharing. And making other people happy.”

  “I make people happy,” Amy said. “I make you happy, don’t I?”

  Conor cracked a smile. “Yes. But I don’t want you to keep thinking me, me, me. That’s not the Christmas spirit.”

  Amy weighed that idea, her smile fading and her eyelids fluttering against a sudden sheen of tears. “Does that mean I’m not good?”

  “Good isn’t an absolute,” Conor said. At her perplexed look, he groped for simpler words. “Everyone is good at heart, but sometimes they forget to be good in their behavior. We all act selfish sometimes. We all make mistakes. We get angry and lash out. Or we’re forgetful. It doesn’t mean we’re bad. It just means we’re human. Christmas isn’t like getting a grade on a test—if you get an A you get lots of presents, a B, you get fewer presents, a D, no presents at all. I know all your friends and the commercials on TV and the displays at the stores make you think Christmas is about getting stuff. But it’s not. It’s about being kind and generous and thinking of others.”

  “I think of Mommy all the time,” Amy said, her voice quivering. “Does that mean I’m good?”

  Conor reached across the table and gave Amy’s tiny hand a squeeze. “You’re very good. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said in a near whisper.

  The mood at the table subdued, they finished their meals with little chatter. Eliza digested everything Conor had said, the calm wisdom he’d managed to tap into just when he’d seemed to be on the ropes. Where had that come from?

  They didn’t speak about it until the table was cleared and Amy was given permission to watch TV in the family room. Conor refilled his and Eliza’s glasses with wine and they settled on the living room sofa, facing the fireplace and the slowly unfurling tree. Conor flicked a switch and a gas-fueled fire flickered to life in the hearth. “My wife’s choice,” he muttered as he joined her on the sofa. “I prefer chopping wood and lighting matches, but she thought that was too much effort.”

  “Either way, it’s pretty,” Eliza said. “And it warms the room.” She shifted on the sofa’s enveloping cushions so she could look at Conor—and put a little space between them. She wasn’t ready to kiss him again. Over dinner she’d learned more about him—and also realized how much she still had to learn.

  Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then they both spoke at once: “About what happened earlier—” he said.

  “You’re such a good father,” she said. His words reached her as hers reached him, and she wished she’d remained silent. They needed to talk about what had happened earlier. That kiss. That wild, hot kiss.

  But he seemed more interested in following her conversational lead. “I feel like I’m winging it,” he confessed. “Making it up as I go along.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “I always counted on Sheila to be the expert parent,” he admitted. “Sheila wasn’t the most warm-and-cuddly woman in the world, but she always seemed able to say what Amy needed to hear. That seems to be a knack reserved for mothers.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a mother-father thing,” Eliza said. “I think some people just have a talent for it.” She paused, then decided to stick to the topic of Conor’s late wife. It made her feel safe. Conor wouldn’t try to kiss her if they were discussing the love of his life. And much as she wanted to kiss him again, she knew she shouldn’t. “I reviewed Amy’s files from last year. It sounds as if your wife had a lot of talents. She was an artist?”

  “She liked to draw and paint. She hadn’t had much time for her art until Amy began attending public school. She was getting back into it. That and long-distance biking.”

  He gazed at the fireplace, his expression unreadable. “She died in a bicycle accident,” Eliza said.

  He nodded. “They say wearing a helmet can save lives. Well, yeah, maybe—if you land on your head. It doesn’t offer much protection to the rest of your organs, though.”

  “She died doing something she loved,” Eliza noted. A platitude, but people often took comfort from the thought.

  Conor nodded again, then sighed. “She died doing something she loved and left me to deal with the aftermath. I’ve been feeling my way ever since, stumbling and fumbling. But I got a lot out of the Daddy School class today. I don’t know what I would have said to Amy if I hadn’t gone to that class. The last time we talked about whether she was good, she fled the room in tears. This time, it looked like she was close to crying, but at least she finished her dinner.”

  “I thought what you said was perfect. It doesn’t matter whether she believes in Santa. Christmas is about giving, not receiving.”

  “That’s a hard thing to get through a kid’s skull. All they hear, everywhere they turn, is that Christmas is about getting stuff. Toys. Money. Candy. They’re bombarded with gimme, gimme, gimme.”

  “So, the Daddy School taught you how to counter that?”

  “We batted ideas around. No one had any magic solutions. We just exchanged ideas.” He reflected for a moment. “It was good. I heard some things I really needed to hear.”

  “I’m glad you went.”

  He shot her a brief, hopeful smile. “I may need your babysitting services again next week. The class meets every Saturday morning.”

  Did he still think of her as a babysitter? After they’d spent the entire day together? After they’d chosen a tree together?

  After they’d kissed?

  If he was thinking of her as a babysitter, would he kiss her again? Did she want him to? After the mess with Matt, was she ready to get involved with another man? Did kissing Conor mean they were involved?

  Did she want to be involved with him? He obviously still missed his wife. He had a troubled daughter. He was in no position to pursue a new relationship. And Eliza wasn’t the sort of woman who enjoyed casual love affairs. With her, a relationship had to be all or nothing, whole-hearted or not worth the bother.

  “When I interrupted you before, you were about to talk about what happened earlier today,” she gently reminded him.

  He allowed himself another faint, deliciously sexy smile. She recognized it as a sign that he wasn’t sure of what to say, what to do, how he felt. Matt had always seemed so assertive, so positive about everything. He knew where he stood and what he was after. Doubt never threw a shadow across his path. She used to admire that about him, but it often irritated her, too. Sometimes he was wrong. Sometimes he was clueless. Yet he could never acknowledge that, and she recognized in hindsight that what had appeared to be a strength had actually been a weakness.

  Conor’s willingness to let her see his ambivalence, his confusion and apprehension, made her like him even more.

  He sighed. His beautiful blue eyes narrowed on the flames dancing in the fireplace. “I’m not really good at this,” he said.

  “Good at what?”

  “Daddy, I think it’s my bedtime,” Amy announced, materializing suddenly in the arched doorway to the living room.

  “Well, that’s a first,” Conor muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “Usually she fights me about bedtime.”

  Eliza smiled. “She’s trying to be good.”

  Conor pulled a face. “If I ever meet Santa, I’m going to tear him a new one. He’s got the poor kid tying herself in knots.” But he crossed the room, gave Amy a pat on the shoulder and nudged her toward the stairs. “Go on up and get into your pj’s. And brush your teeth.”

  “For two minutes. I know,” Amy said.

  “Give a holler when you’re ready for me to tuck you in.”


  “I will.” Amy took a step toward the stairs, then paused and turned back. “Can Eliza help us decorate the tree tomorrow?”

  Conor didn’t look at Eliza. “We’ll see.”

  Amy peered past him to meet Eliza’s gaze. “Thank you for making cookies with me,” she said, clearly earning herself another few points in Santa’s esteem. Then she scampered up the stairs.

  Conor glanced over his shoulder at Eliza. “Do you mind sticking around a little longer?”

  A little longer. Long enough to discuss their kiss? Long enough for another kiss?

  She nodded. Either way, yes. She would stick around.

  Chapter Seven

  CONOR DIDN’T WANT his daughter hitting her classmates. But he wasn’t comfortable with her behaving perfectly, either. It wasn’t natural. He wanted her to be a normal kid, not an angel.

  He spent a few minutes in the kitchen, adding soap to the dishwasher and draping the damp dishtowel over the oven’s handle while he waited for Amy to summon him. Eliza remained in the living room, which suited him. He needed a few minutes alone. Perhaps she did, too.

  What was he getting himself into? Eliza was beautiful. She was smart. She was reassuring. She was gentle, not just with Amy but with him. Merely looking at her made his body vibrate with awareness. He wanted her.

  But wanting her made him feel disloyal to Sheila. Was it too soon to desire another woman?

  His groin said no. Definitely not too soon. Maybe not soon enough. He was a healthy man, hungry for sex.

  His mind said yes. Too soon to love another woman, and wasn’t love what a woman deserved if you were going to have sex with her?

  His heart… His heart said, I don’t know. That kiss—he hadn’t expected it, hadn’t planned it, yet it had been the most exciting few minutes he’d experienced since the day Sheila died. His heart couldn’t say yes or no, but it wanted more. Much more.

  What did Eliza’s heart want? More than he could give?

  “Daddy, I’m ready!” Amy hollered.

  He avoided peeking into the living room as he headed for the stairs and up. Amy stood in her bedroom doorway, clad in a pair of pajamas with pink teddy bears printed across the fabric. Her wrists stuck out of the sleeves and her ankle bones were visible above the lace-edged bottoms. She must have grown an inch in the last month. He’d have to buy her some new clothes, a task he dreaded. What did he know about girl clothing? Who could he ask for guidance?

  His thoughts drifted to the woman seated on his living room couch. No, he couldn’t ask Eliza. He already felt like an ass for hinting that he’d like her to babysit for him again.

  Amy smelled like minty toothpaste and soap when he joined her upstairs. She climbed into her bed, hugging her favorite doll, Lambie, to her. “I love our tree,” she said as Conor tucked the blanket around her and the stuffed animal. “And the cookies. Baking is cool. Maybe I’ll be a chef when I grow up.”

  “You’ll be a better cook than me,” Conor assured her. “It was very nice of Dr. Powell to make those cookies with you.”

  “Ask her to help us decorate the tree tomorrow, okay? She’ll make it extra pretty for Mommy.”

  With one request, Amy had managed to trip every landmine buried in Conor’s psyche. A resigned laugh escaped him. Damn Sheila for leaving behind such a mess: a grieving daughter. A horny husband. A kind, generous school psychologist who deserved better than the Malones. A Christmas tree that was going to cause Amy despair on what should be the happiest morning of her life, once she discovered that Santa hadn’t an angel beneath its fragrant branches.

  He kissed Amy’s brow, turned off her lamp and descended the stairs to the living room.

  Eliza had abandoned the sofa for the window. She stared at the black-velvet night outside, her arms crossed her expression pensive. He studied her for a moment, her hair tumbling in soft waves down her back, her turquoise sweater emphasizing the sleek lines of her shoulders and the graceful nip of her waist, her black denim jeans making her legs look impossible long and slim. He swallowed, his mouth aching for the taste of her.

  She must have sensed his presence, because she abruptly pivoted to face him. “It’s snowing.”

  “Will you have trouble driving home?”

  She shook her head. “Before I moved here, I lived in upstate New York. I can drive through a blizzard without blinking an eye. Anyway, this is just flurries. It’s pretty.”

  He joined her at the window. Flecks of snow swirled in the air, silver-white, as if angels were shaking the dust from their wings.

  He’d been spending too much time with Amy. He had angels on the brain.

  And he was standing next to a woman who could qualify as an angel, just on the basis of this one long, tiring, exhilarating day.

  He thought about everything he’d meant to say to Eliza about why he’d kissed her. About how he hadn’t come on to a woman since Sheila had died—how he hadn’t even looked at another woman after Sheila had entered his life twelve years ago. About how he’d been a one-woman man for so long, he no longer remembered the proper way to court and woo and seduce a woman. About how he wanted to relearn everything with Eliza, and he was afraid of screwing up.

  About how guilty those wants made him feel. About how guilt wasn’t going to hold him back.

  He gathered Eliza into his arms, pulled her close, covered her mouth with his. The taste of her lips was better than he’d remembered, because now it was seasoned with wine and familiarity and trust that having her, spending the night with her, taking her to his bed and loving her would be worth all the guilt, all the confusion, all the complications.

  She kissed him back. Hard. Eager. Every bit as passionate as he was.

  He didn’t want this moment to end. He wanted her arms around his waist forever, her hands flattened against the small of his back, her hips pressed to him, her breath and then her tongue filling his mouth. He wanted the angles of her shoulders pressing into his palms, the sweep of her hair against his fingers, her soft, tremulous moan singing in his ears. He wanted this. Her. Now.

  Somehow, they staggered together to the couch. She fell back against the cushions, reaching for him, pulling him onto her, into her arms. He sprawled on top of her, settling between her legs, gliding his hands over the soft skin of her face and throat, the soft curves of her breasts. He kissed her eyelids, the edge of her jaw, the bridge of her nose, the hollow at the base of her throat. No other woman existed for him now. No other woman ever had.

  Hastily, without words, they undressed each other. Her sweater. His shirt. Her shoes. His belt. Her hands glided along his back and he swelled rock-hard. His hands skimmed her thighs and she gasped. He kissed her naked belly and her hips lurched. He kissed lower and a muffled cry escaped her.

  “I should get something,” he murmured.

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s okay. I’m safe.”

  “Are you—?”

  “I’m sure. Don’t leave me.”

  He couldn’t. He didn’t.

  Her body took his, warm and wet and honey-sweet. Her skin glowed golden in the flickering light of the fire. Her eyes closed and then opened again, gazing up at him with a trust he wasn’t sure he had earned. He tried to slow his movements, but she rose to him, absorbing him, urging him on. God, she was amazing. The sexiest, most desirable woman he’d ever—

  Another cry escaped her, muted as she bit her lip. Her eyes closed again, her body shuddered and she clung tightly to him as her pulsing body pushed him to his peak. He groaned as sensation swept through him, fierce, pummeling his body, leaving him drained and weary and content

  For an endless moment they lay still, sweat filming their skin, breath emerging in short, shallow bursts. Her hands moved lazily over his back, no longer clinging and digging into his muscles. Her head sank into the upholstered arm of the sofa, the tension in her face easing and her lips, those sweet, kissable lips softening into a smile.

  When he finally found the strength, he kissed that smile
and propped himself up on his elbows. She opened her eyes. “You were wrong,” she said.

  Damn. She’d found him out. Yes, he was wrong—about seducing her, about hoping she wanted him as much as he wanted her, about convincing himself that this wasn’t a bad idea.

  “You said you weren’t good at this,” she reminded him. “You are.”

  “Oh.” Was that the best he could do? Oh? Thank you didn’t seem quite right. “I was inspired,” he said instead.

  She laughed wearily. “I don’t think I’m that inspiring.”

  “Then you’re the one who’s wrong.” He sat up and eased her into a sitting position, pulling her snugly to himself. “Are you sure this was—I mean, safe? I usually…” Actually, he hadn’t used a condom in more than a decade. Did he even have any? Renewing his sex life hadn’t been a high priority before the instant he’d stepped into Eliza’s office at the Adams School a week ago.

  He’d wanted her from that moment, the first time he’d seen her. He hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t wanted to admit it, but there it was. He should have bought some contraceptives that day.

  “I’m okay,” she assured him. “And I assume you are, too.”

  “I really did intend to talk to you,” he said, sounding apologetic to himself. Yet the feel of her against him, her breast pressing into his chest and her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder, vanquished any regrets. He wasn’t sorry about this. He wasn’t sorry about anything.

  “There are ethical issues,” she said, jolting him. “But as long as Amy is seeing Rosalyn Hoffman instead of me, I don’t think we’ve crossed any lines.”

  Oh, they’d crossed lines, all right. They’d crossed the line of a man who’d vowed to love only one woman and now wanted another woman. They’d crossed the line of a man who ought to be keeping the mental health of his daughter first and foremost in his mind. He was sure there were other lines, too, dozens of lines he couldn’t even discern. He felt them like trip-wires tangling around his feet.

  Tomorrow he would worry about them. Not tonight.

  “I can’t stay,” Eliza said.